“Do you need help?” he asked.
“No, I got it.”
Nevertheless, he had his hands out, ready to catch her.
“Ah ha!” she exclaimed exultantly. “It’s still here. You know, I’ve had no reason to check in years. I thought maybe the maids might have found it by now.” She started back down, carefully, and encountered Zach’s hands on her waist. “Thank you,” she said, a measure of uncertainty in her gratitude.
He let go quickly enough, and she unlocked the door after only a bit of trouble. As the door swung open, light flooded them along with the chorus of distant voices. They both looked away for a moment while their pupils adjusted to the early evening sun flooding bright orange from nondescript locations. She returned the key to its hiding spot, which Zach felt oddly privileged to know, and then caught up his hand again, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. She put her finger to her lips, indicating that silence was of absolute necessity.
He went along with her, hopelessly drawn in by her innocent seduction and intrigue.
She led him down the railing-lined, curved upstairs hall, decorated tastefully in summery beige and burgundy trim. Sconces and a bright arch-top window provided ample light during the day. They could see the vestibule, kitchen entrance, staircases, and grand foyer down below. Zach’s keen hearing picked out his father’s voice – still arguing in the formal dining. Bitter, he looked away.
Shelley stopped at the end of the hall. Discreetly, she opened the lilac door and flicked on the light switch.
Releasing his hand, she bustled into what was clearly her old room. It was done in hues of deep purple and royal blue. An interesting but dark combination. There were stenciled music note flourishes on the lavender accent wall and a giant painting of a little girl at a grand piano with the sun streaming through giant windows; her feet didn’t even touch the pedals.
He looked around while she went straight to her cream puff of a bed and starting removing decorative pillow after decorative pillow, stuffed toy after stuffed toy. She had a trove of treasures on her dresser which looked untouched yet dust-free.
Atop an armoire sat an assortment of pictures, trophies, and awards. He was shocked to find she’d received so many notable music recognitions. On another wall hung a framed certificate presented to her by the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition about seven years ago. His brows elevated. “You were a Van Cliburn finalist?”
Her hands stilled in the middle of turning back the bedspread. “I’m surprised you know what that is.”
He turned to her, but he couldn’t see her face. “You must’ve been what? Eighteen?”
“Seventeen,” she answered.
“That’s amazing.”
Her throat clogged tight. “Would you still think it was amazing if I told you I completely fell apart in front of thousands of people?” She smoothed the covers like a bookmark and patted down the pillow. Then, she straightened, finding nothing left to do. She kept her back to him and fought breathing.
He came up behind her. Gently, he turned her towards him and encouraged her to look into his eyes. She thought she would find detached pity. But instead, she beheld heartfelt understanding. She felt the shift in him – a moving of tectonic plates.
However, she was all too aware that there was a bed next to them. Backing away, hoping he would get the hint, she gestured to the bed. “You’re welcome to lie down. I’ll cover for you.”
He couldn’t believe she was going to walk out, but at the same time, relief filled him. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why she was being nice to him, but he was pretty sure he already knew.
30
As Shelley reentered the dining room, an ocean of compliments and applause hit her all at once. Shocked, she stood rooted for a moment before a smile lit her face and she made her way around the extra-long table.
Her brother James kissed her hand, the “growing” 22-year-old twins were too busy stuffing their faces but mumbled something that sounded like ‘really awesome’, and Erik gave her a “yeah, it’s great” before returning to his Victoria’s Secret delicacy. Shelley cringed at her nasally voice but kept smiling.
Abigail patted her cheek with grandmotherly affection and declared the food was “marvelous”.
Bill rose to give her a hug. “It was delicious, hon. Should’ve gotten you to cater the wedding.”
Even Barbara had no subtle stabs with which to pinprick her praise, which was in and of itself the highest compliment Shelley could receive from the woman. Her own mother had something to say. “Mi hija, don’t you think the chilli on the sweet potato is a little bold?”
To which Shelley’s father, seated adjacent to her at the head of the table, countered, “I rather like it. Reminds me of you.” He winked lovingly at Carol as he picked up his coffee. He took a sip of the black brew.
Standing by her father’s chair, Shelley studied David Ericson in the middle of the table. Impulsively, she put her arms around her father’s broad shoulders, thankfulness burgeoning inside her. Her hair waterfalled down his sleeve as she gave his clean-shaven cheek a kiss. “Love you,” she said.
He smirked, lifting his hand to cup her head. “And how much is this love going to set me back?”
She dropped her gaze for a moment, thinking, and then she looked at him. “I’ll play for you.” Then, added uncertainly, “If you want.”
With a glance that said he wanted nothing more, he deposited his napkin on the table and stood. Shelley straightened and waited as he dropped a kiss to her mother’s hair, and said, “Excuse me, dear.”
Taking Shelley’s hand, he walked her out of the dining room, happy. Until he noticed Zach was absent.
In the library, Henri poured himself some bourbon – neat – while Shelley situated herself at the piano. It was dusky outside, and the front lawn’s lights had come on.
He turned in time to notice her take off her heels. The corner of his mouth tipped. “Do they let you play without shoes at The Purple Gazelle?”
Worriedly, she glanced at him, trying to gauge if he was joking or not-so-subtly alluding to her current job. “No.” She looked back at the black and white keys and settled her hands on them. They were cold. “What would you like to hear?”
He took a sip and just admired the profile of his baby girl. “I want to hear you sing.”
Afraid and regretting the offer, she demurred, “Oh, but Daddy, I really don’t think I can.”
“Ma chère? Vous chantez pour les hommes étranges, mais pour votre père vous ne pouvez pas.”
You sing and play for strange men, and yet for me you cannot. She cringed with guilt. Instead of saying anything in response, she began the intro to “Autumn Leaves”. Her chest lifted in the required breath before she started to sing, but her vocals lacked the sultry luster and expression. Henri knew she was holding herself back.
“The autumn leaves… drift by my window… the autumn leaves… of red and gold…” Breath. “I see your lips, the summer kisses… The sunburned hands I used to hold…” With each word, her voice began to stabilize and the quiver died away.
His cleft chin dipped a little, and he moved around the body of the grand so he could see and hear her.
“Since you went away the days grow long… And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song… But still I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall.”
She played a short solo, vibrating the long-unused strings, exploiting the full range of the instrument. Her passion began to come through, strong and virulent. Henri relaxed, then, enjoying his drink. When she began to sing again, but this time in French, his pleasure only grew.
“C’est une chanson… qui nous ressemble…Toi tu m’aimais… et je t’aimais…Nous vivions tous, les deux ensemble…Toi que m’aimais moi qui t’aimais…”
He closed his eyes and envisioned her on stage as a seventeen-year-old, captivating thousands. A smile curved his mouth as pride and melancholia burst in his chest.
“Mais
la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment… Tout doucement sans faire de bruit… Et la mer efface sur le sable les pas des amants désunis.” She finished the piece with an outro and flourished the last sad, mystical chord.
When she removed her hands, letting the notes die away, she wouldn’t look at her father. She kept her eyes on her lap, inwardly telling herself that he must hate it, berating and scolding herself for the horrible performance. Her intonation was sketchy. Her hands had barely functioned. The vibrato – oh my God! – the vibrato.
But then her father came to sit down next to her, bourbon discarded. He put an arm around her and said, “That was beautiful. Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but all of a sudden tears fell rapid-fire, and she couldn’t stop them. Embarrassed, she blubbered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lying to you.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. He pulled her to him and cradled her like he used to, uncaring if she got her briny tears on his suit. She clung to him, and he was more than happy to hold her – his pride and joy. Over her head, he looked out onto the darkening lawn, twinkled by the lampposts, and his face dimmed. He would do whatever it took to protect her from getting hurt again. Regardless of the cost.
31
Dinner was over, and Melissa and Shelley were elbow-deep in sudsy hot water, doing dishes in the large double sink. Behind them, Carrie and Ashleigh cut the pies and laid slices on gold-trimmed saucers while the Mitchell brothers and the other males kept coming in and out, assisting with logistical support.
“How generous,” Melissa griped when her husband Brad was one of the first to show up for dessert duty.
Much happier, Shelley suppressed a laugh but Melissa caught it and splashed her playfully.
“You’re not off the hook yet,” Melissa whispered. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about Zach.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Besides, you’re in Maryland now, and I’m afraid of bothering you with my issues–”
“Oh my God, Shelley,” Melissa moaned. “My life is kids, diapers, and throw up. Your problems are the kind I want to hear about.” She elbowed Shelley. “Especially when they’re that delicious.”
Shelley smiled but said nothing.
“It’s like I’m in the Army!” Erik moaned dramatically as he pushed back out the kitchen door with one piece of apple and one piece of pumpkin.
Ashleigh rolled her eyes. “Did you do the cooking?” she called back.
“Hey, I worked for fourteen hours straight yesterday!”
“Yeah, sitting on your ass, which by the way” – she tilted her head, inspecting – “It’s getting flabby.”
Erik’s jaw dropped, and he narrowed his eyes. “Watch yourself, Ash.”
Ashleigh grinned smugly, putting her hands on her hips. “Whatever you say, buns of steel.”
The ladies burst out laughing. Grumbling, Erik left, tail tucked between his legs. Soon after, the call came to halt the flow of pie, and Carrie and Ashleigh grabbed plates for themselves, talking at a racehorse pace as they headed back to the “army”.
In their absence, the kitchen grew serene, lulled by the sounds of sloshing water as Shelley and Melissa continued dish-duty.
But then, the pantry opened. Shelley looked over first, knowing full well who would emerge.
Zach, of course. And he had that adorable sleepy bear look, which melted all their hearts. A little disoriented, he rubbed at his face and then realized that females were staring at him. Again.
While Melissa tried to cover her smile, Shelley pulled her hands out of the sudsy water, rinsed them off, and wiped them dry on a towel, coming towards him as she did so. “Did you get some rest?”
Sheepishly, he nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” He looked around uncomfortably.
Fortunately, Melissa said, “Hey Shell, I need to check on Brad and the kids. I swear he’s worse than they are sometimes.” As she left, she nabbed a pie plate for herself and waved to Shelley with a ‘go on’ sort of smile.
And then… it was just them. Zach felt awkward; her smile, meant to ease his tension, only made matters worse.
“Would you like some dessert?” she asked.
His core tightened while waiting for his head to clear of sleepy fog. But she turned and pointed to the remainder of what were obviously pies, and he wanted to smack himself. “I, uh, never told you but dinner was really good. Can’t believe you made all of it.”
“Well, I only started yesterday,” she said in mild sarcasm. Setting the towel aside, she went and cut him a larger-than-average slice of warm, golden apple pie. She then scooped out some French vanilla ice cream – the only thing she didn’t make – and then set it atop the flaky, buttery crust.
“How do you know I don’t want pumpkin?”
She shrugged. “I’m just assuming.”
“That’s a big assumption,” he rumbled, flirtation creeping into his voice.
She felt him drawing closer. “Would you rather have pumpkin?”
“That’s not the point.”
Frowning in confusion, she turned to look at him. “Just tell me what you want, Zach.”
He inhaled deeply as he came nearer. He smelled the warm spice and sugar permeating the air, but it was the subtle, unadulterated scent she exuded which made his bones ache and his mouth salivate. His eyes darkened to teal, and his brows furrowed deeply. “Shelley, I–”
“Yes?” she breathed with anticipation rising in her breast. Her pupils dilated. Warmth swept through her.
He wanted to say he was sorry about earlier. But instead, he shook his head. “I can’t–”
“Can’t what?” She stepped closer to him, encouragingly. Their feet met.
He told himself no even as his hands found her waist; she felt soft to the touch – like velvet. She feathered his chest. He felt her gently lean into him, and he lost whatever measure of willpower he’d been exercising. Wanting her in his marrow, he brought his mouth within a breath of hers and waited this time, giving her the chance to escape. But she encircled his neck with her soft hands and drew his head down, giving herself to him.
The world faded, his spirits buoyed, and a different kind of heat pierced the ice around his heart. Her healing, tender sweetness filled his mouth. His tongue entangled itself with hers as she saturated him completely.
She framed his pleasantly-rough face and kissed him, tasting him like well-aged wine, savoring every candy-coated drop as his hands possessed her, melding with her curves and digging into her hair. She felt his quixotic desire, and her own burst forth, magical, indescribable. Surreal.
She had the hazy thought that she could die quite happily right now. In his arms.
All too quickly it ended. Deliriously enraptured, she gazed into his impassioned orbs, and a punch-drunk smile curved her wet lips. As he pressed a gun-smoking kiss to her forehead, her fingers combed his hair. “So then,” she breathed innocently, “you don’t want the apple?”
A low chuckle emitted from his throat, and a sensuous grin transformed his face – it stopped her heart and dropped her stomach a thousand miles. Mouth gravitating to her neck, he said huskily, “Anything you’ve got, I want.”
Pleasure cascaded down her body. Her eyes closed as his words and touch spread like wildfire. He kissed every part of her exposed neck, backing her against the counter, pressing so close he could feel her quivering thighs. He would’ve acted on his burning desire except –
“Aunt Shelley!”
She gasped, eyes popping open. Guilty. Zach wasn’t as quick to let go as she was. But he said nothing.
A boy of about six burst in and came to a grinding halt. He stared at Zach.
“Yes, Tim?” Shelley prompted.
“Daddy says there’s a guy here to see you,” Tim said with a slight lisp, ruddy cheeks attesting to the fact that he’d been running.
Shelley smiled. “Okay, sweetie, thank you. I’m coming.” Tim rushed off then, yelling the missive even before
he’d fully left.
She looked at Zach apologetically, smiling. “Why don’t you sit down and eat?”
He followed her to the kitchen table where she set the pie and now-melting ice cream in front of a chair along with a clean fork. As she sailed away on a happy cloud, he sat down, took his first bite, and nearly melted himself. He groaned as the rich crust, cinnamon-glazed apple, and cold ice cream came together in a sensational amalgam.
She threw him a honeyed smile as she pushed against the kitchen door. “See?” she said, mirthful, “I knew you’d like the apple.”
He smirked darkly and let the next bite linger on his tongue as he watched her mouthwatering body disappear. His blood heated with licentious thoughts; he couldn’t wait for her to return.
32
Henri was ready to meet her as she emerged from the kitchen. “The pie was fantastic, sweetheart. I especially loved the white chocolate.”
Shelley linked her hand through his arm. “I’m so glad you liked it.”
“Of course, sweetheart. Anything you make, I love.”
Glowing, she smiled to herself and glanced behind her at the closed kitchen door.
Henri noticed the direction of her gaze and appraised her with a different lens. There was an inexplicable shine to her eyes. An effervescence which had long been absent. Suspicion darkened his mood.
“Carter’s here,” he said as they reached the main vestibule. “He’s waiting for you in the front room.”
And just like that, her happy cloud evaporated. “What?”
Henri stopped as she did. “He said you’d called him. I thought you were still interested.”
Her chest constricted, feeling backed against the wall. “That was – that was weeks ago. But I told him, Daddy. I told him I needed to figure out my life on my own.”
He frowned, taking her by the upper arms. “And you will. He’ll just be there when you’re ready.”
She shook her head, distressed. She couldn’t tell the truth, but her face conveyed it. “But I don’t–”
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